


Skulls

by lilsherlockian1975



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All the gifts are actual things - I made nothing up - well none of the gifts, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gifts, Humor, Post TFP, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, confusion and misunderstandings, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-29 17:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17207456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilsherlockian1975/pseuds/lilsherlockian1975
Summary: It starts with an unusual morning at 221B and soon becomes a game of silly gifts and inside jokes. Or so Molly thinks until the gifts get a bit... personal."Billy,"she said with a bit of venom. "Is female and she's quite old."He smiled. "You wanted to tell me and I wished that you had. No one else noticed. Well, my brother did, but no one cares about Mycroft." Steepling his fingers just under his lips, he studied her. "I saw the recognition on your face, however, and that was enough.""Enough for what?"





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for Holidays at 221B on Tumblr which I mod along with the lovely and talented darnedchild. I *may* have a New Years fic as well, depending on my schedule. Here's hoping!
> 
> Sending sugarplum thank yous to MrsMCrief for giving this one a 'first look' and to MizJoely for her incomparable beta work. I have to mention that Miz's Secret Santa on Tumblr inspired this fic with their gift of a skull scarf. It all started there and was supposed to be a one shot. Well, that didn't happen. As of now, it has four parts total. A fifth may spring up as well, who knows?
> 
> **Thank also to Melloves all for helping me add the edits to the chapters. She's a dol!**
> 
> I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

__

_**Part One** _

It wasn't unusual for Molly to find herself at Sherlock's flat on a Saturday morning; at least not since Mary's death, his relapse and the sudden emergence of his long lost sister. Everyone was keeping a cautious eye on the detective. Though he'd not shown any sign of danger, drugs or spiralling into depression, after the year they'd just had, no one was taking any chances. There was no schedule, per se, just occasional 'pop-ins' to see how he was doing. Molly was sure he was aware of his friends' concern; strangely enough, he didn't seem to mind.

"Here you go," he said, handing her a mug of coffee. She'd had a late night at the morgue that had bled into the early morning. A rash of people ringing in 'sick' - that Molly thought had more to do with holiday shopping than any actual illness - had her working her second double shift in a row and tea simply wasn't going to cut it today. Apparently, Sherlock had read that in the ten minutes since she'd arrived; he'd then stomped off to the kitchen, muttering something about her inconsiderate co-workers.

Sherlock sat down in his chair - his new chair - but Molly wandered, afraid that if she sat, she'd pass out. Rather than heading home, she had opted to check on him first, get it out of the way early so that she could go home and collapse. Taking a sip of her coffee, she walked towards the fireplace. Oddly enough, Sherlock had a fire burning in the grate and she felt drawn to it.

She'd been worried about the state of 221B after hearing about the explosion. Well, after hearing from Mrs. Hudson that everyone was fine and unharmed, for the most part. Later, however, she had found out that the iconic building had sustained significant damage. Molly had wondered if he would upgrade the place, modernise it in any way. He was the epitome of modern fashion, after all, as if he'd just walked off a runway rather than a dirty crime scene. But his home was some strange eclectic mix of eras and styles.

Her eyes suddenly were drawn to the familiar skull that sat on the mantel. She set her mug on a nearby table and picked up "Billy". Suppressing a laugh, she studied it closer than she had ever before dared.  _Oh, well hello, Billie_.  _You are just what I suspected,_ she thought.

"Something funny, Doctor?" Sherlock asked.

The recognition must have shown on her face and, of course, since he never missed a thing, he had noticed. Still holding the skull, Molly turned to face him fully. "The first time I came here, you told me you knew  _him_." She smirked, holding the skull up just a little higher. Her lips stretched into a wry smile. "That  _he_ was your friend. Why'd you lie?"

His smile suddenly matched hers. "You tell me."

Molly's mind wandered, drifting back to a similar scene many, many years before...

 _He must have just moved in; there were boxes everywhere._ Or he's a slob,  _she mused._

_Somehow, the dashing detective had managed to talk her into risking her job with nothing more than a wink and compliment about the shade of her lipstick. She'd only been wearing the lipstick because it just so happened that she'd had her 90-day evaluation that morning and, of course, wanted to look her best._

_The first time he'd strode into the lab, with that lovely DI Lestrade in tow, Molly couldn't help but be a bit unnerved. Both men were gorgeous and the detective - "Call me Sherlock…_ Molly _," he'd said at their first meeting - was brilliant in a way she'd only read about in mystery novels. The sound of her name in his deep, rich voice had caused an involuntary shiver down her spine that she had a hard time suppressing. The DI had snorted and cuffed Sherlock on the back of the head, telling him to 'knock it off, you pillock!' and asking her about the body of a John Doe that had recently been brought in._

Molly, twenty-six-year-old Molly Hooper, was lost at that moment.

Thinking on it now, she wanted to cringe, but really… she'd been so young and impressionable. High on ideals and short on experience.

Three weeks later Sherlock had started asking her about 'spare parts', dazzling her with his talk of experiments and deductive reasoning. She knew now that he was working her, softening her up, making her pliable; he was manipulating her and perhaps showing off a bit. Let it never be said that Sherlock Holmes doesn't enjoy an audience. At the time, unfortunately, she had thought that he was interested in her… personally. By a month into their association, he had her… at his home… delivering a dead man's toes…

" _Your place is… lovely, Sh-Sherlock," she stammered as he eagerly rummaged through the cooler that she had bought for the sole purpose of smuggling the toes out of the hospital._

" _Hmm?" he absently hummed._

" _Your flat. I love it!"_

_Looking up, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, then glanced around the room. "It serves my purpose."_

_Molly put her bag down on the coffee table and strolled through the maze of boxes, not touching anything, of course, just taking everything in: the skull on the wall -_  Is that a bison? A very large goat? No… definitely a bison! Why is it wearing headphones?  _\- the beautiful leather chair, worn but oddly inviting, the settee that looked like he found it in an alley and another skull, this one a lithograph, hanging on the wall._ I'm seeing a pattern…

_She had made it to the mantel and was just about to reach for the very interesting, very old human skull when Sherlock suddenly appeared from behind her, snatching it out of her line of sight._

" _Billy," he said, apparently referring to the object in his hand._

" _Oh?" She had only given it a quick scan before he'd grabbed it, now holding it against his chest, obscuring the skull with his large hand. "Billy?" Though she couldn't be sure, Molly was suspicious about the sex of his apparently - judging by the way he was cradling it - beloved skull._

" _Yes. An old friend of mine."_

" _You... knew him, then?"_

_A spark of… something lit up in his eyes, but Molly couldn't possibly place it; she hardly knew him well enough to judge his facial expressions. Oh, but she could hope._

_He nodded. "As I said, he was an old friend."_

" _Sorry for your loss," she replied, half-heartedly and with a fair amount of suspicion. In her professional opinion, that skull was at least a hundred years old. And… it was female._

_Sherlock just nodded again and placed it back onto the mantel, positioning himself between her and Billy. "Well… thank you for the toes."_

_The atmosphere had changed; it was now awkward and strained. Molly knew she was being dismissed. Retrieving her bag with a heavy heart, she made her way to the door. She had hoped the toes had been some kind of excuse to get her to his flat. Apparently not._

_A week later, she would pluck up the courage and - after applying the lipstick he'd mentioned the day of her evaluation - ask him out for coffee. And well, that hadn't gone to plan._

That day felt like a lifetime ago as she stood there, holding the skull of his 'old friend', reliving the moment. Thinking on it now, it was clear what had started her infatuation, or was it an obsession? Whatever it was had gradually evolved into admiration, after an unhealthy dose of angst, of course. Which led them… here.

She shook herself, not wanting to dwell on unpleasant things. Back to the puzzle. Though it wasn't exactly difficult to figure out what he had been doing that day. She'd thought he was flirting in his odd way, but no he was…

"It was a test," she said, setting the skull back in its place.

Sherlock smiled knowingly but said nothing.

"You wanted to know if I could figure anything out about  _Billy_ ," she motioned to him, well  _her_ , then put her hands behind her back and paced a few feet away, "with nothing more than a cursory look."

He relaxed back into his chair. "Very good, professor. And what did you observe? What did you keep to yourself because you misconstrued the reason for my invitation?"

Annoyed, Molly turned and picked up her coffee, drinking half of it in one go. He had known! Of course he had known that she'd thought he was interested in her. It wasn't as if this was new information; hearing it out loud, however…

She carried her mug over to the chair that had replaced John's and sat down. Unlike Sherlock's, it wasn't an exact replica. " _Billy,"_  she said with a bit of venom. "Is female and she's quite old."

He smiled. "You wanted to tell me and I wished that you had. No one else noticed. Well, my brother did, but no one cares about Mycroft." Steepling his fingers just under his lips, he studied her. "I saw the recognition on your face, however, and that was enough."

"Enough for what?"

"To know that you were quick, observant. Upon our first few meetings, I…" He suddenly looked a bit ashamed. "I was unsure of your intelligence and capability. That day was, as you said, a test. After I realised that you saw the truth about Billy, I only wanted to work with you."

Molly looked down at her mug, willing the tears not to fall. She picked at a chip in the glazing with her thumbnail as she gathered herself. "I, ah, thought you only worked with me because I was… easy. Easy to manipulate…"

"No, Molly. That wasn't it." He leant forward, causing her to look up. "You were -  _are_ the best." Smirking, he added, "Of course, you're also the only person who will put up with me." They both laughed but Sherlock quickly sobered. "You, my dear girl, are precious and rare."

All the air seem to leave the room at once as they stared at each other. Something had just changed. Something about that last sentence was different, as if they were no longer talking about lab assistance.

A knock on the door of the flat broke the staring contest and she nearly dropped her mug. Mrs. Hudson's voice was saying something about a client, though Molly paid the woman little attention.

"Have her wait downstairs, Mrs. Hudson. Molly and I…"

"I really need to get home," she interrupted, standing. "I'm about to fall over."

Sherlock stood as well and reached for her mug. Again, he studied her for a moment before saying, "I'll get you a cab."

"No-no. I can take the Tube."

"A cab, Molly. I insist." His tone indicated that there'd be no more argument.

Bundled up against the wretched December weather that had currently settled over London, Molly walked down the stairs, Sherlock right behind her. She had all but forgotten about the client until she very nearly ran into a stunningly beautiful blonde in the foyer. The woman was dressed in designer clothes, a fur coat and stiletto heels that made Molly dizzy just looking at them.

"Mr. Holmes," the woman said in an urgent voice. "I must speak to you immediately! There's been a theft and..."

"In a moment, Mrs…?"

" _Miss_  Brown," she said, heavy emphasis on the 'Miss' as she reached out, grabbing Sherlock's forearm tightly. "And time is of…"

"I understand, Miss Brown," Sherlock interrupted once again, seemingly annoyed. He shook free of her grasp. "Mrs. Hudson will see you upstairs and get you a cup of tea." He gave his landlady a pointed look; she returned it with a roll of her eyes. "I shall return after I see my friend safely ensconced in a cab and on her way." He reached out and put his hand on Molly's lower back.

The act did not go unnoticed by this Miss Brown. She cut Molly a scathing look; her eyes travelling from Molly's sensible work shoes to her puffy, pale blue parka and brightly coloured scarf.

 _Cow!_  she thought as she finished putting on her gloves. "I can get my own cab, Sherlock," Molly said turning to him, not realising how close it put them.

"Nonsense," he replied with a quirk of his lips. "Miss Brown's nerves need calming and you're so tired I'm afraid you'll pass out on the pavement." Then the berk winked. Winked! What was he insinuating with that bloody wink? Turning to his landlady, he said, "Do you mind, Mrs. Hudson?"

She'd evidently been watching the exchange closely because her attitude suddenly changed. "Oh, of course not! Our Molly must be worn out. up all night as she was," she said with a giggle." She then turned to the other woman. "This way, Miss Green. Let's get you some tea. Sherlock can see his lady friend off and then hear all about your… I'm sorry, what did you say was taken?" They started up the stairs

Miss Brown looked backwards at Sherlock and Molly before following Mrs. Hudson. "It's Miss Brown! And my favourite Birkin bag was stolen. I have several suspects and…"

"Come along, Molly. I'm afraid that I'm in for a tedious morning." He opened the door and the pair stepped out into the cold.

He held up a hand and for the first time since she'd known him, a cab didn't magically appear. God, she was tired. Her head throbbed and the coffee wasn't sitting well on her stomach. Suddenly, however, something dawned on her. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he said, eyes still focused on the street, his brows furrowed, clearly shocked that the world wasn't bending to his will.

"I'm glad Billy survived the explosion." She knew it was the same skull; Sherlock wasn't screwing with her, not now, not after… everything. How it had survived, however...

His hand dropped. "A different man might call it miraculous," he replied, looking more than a bit dubious. Bringing his hands up to his mouth, he rubbed them together, then made them into a fist, blowing into them. He'd not put on his beloved Belstaff before walking her to the curb.

Molly automatically reached up and grabbed them, pulling them away from his mouth and holding them between her gloved hands. Gently rubbing, she tried to give him some of her warmth. She was so focused on trying to warm him up, she didn't notice him staring. "Well, as I said, I'm glad..."

"Molly…"

She looked up. Once again they were standing very close. "Hmmm...?"

"I'm glad you picked him up," he said softly.

"Who?"

"Billy."

" _Her,"_ she whispered. "I picked  _her_  up."

Smiling, he untangled his hands from hers and fussed with her scarf, wrapping it around her neck then securing it over her shoulder. "Indeed." His hand stayed on her shoulder, his eyes focused on hers as he held up his free hand.

She heard the sound of a car behind her, but could not for the life of her take her eyes off of Sherlock's.

"Your cab's here," he said.

It broke the spell and she stepped back, turning to face the car. Sherlock opened the door and she sat. Poking his head in he said, "Get some rest, Molly Hooper," before shutting the door.

She was so focused on the confusing feelings swirling in her head, the butterflies in her stomach, that she barely noticed the cabbie talking to Sherlock through the front passenger window or the fact that he passed several notes over to the man. A minute or so later the cab was moving and she was on her way home.

It had been a most unusual morning.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness! Thanks for all the kind words and encouragement. Glad you liked part one. Part two is full of fun and confusion. Once again, I want to thank MizJoely for her beta work (and proofing it twice because of me and my changes!).
> 
> Hope you all have a safe and happy New Year!
> 
> I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

_**Part Two** _

The first of what would be  _many_ oddities occurred two days after Molly's unusual visit to Baker Street. She had a couple of much needed days off following her hellish shifts, thank God. Her flat was a mess and Toby had  _not_ been pleased with her absence; he'd graciously expressed this by pissing on her favourite throw,  _the little shit_. After a short but restful two hour nap - she refused to let her sleep schedule get thrown off because of the occasional odd shift - she had an early dinner then was back in bed by ten. She spent the next day cleaning, doing laundry and trying to coax Toby out of his mood.

All her domestic work finished, Molly was relaxing with a bowl of butternut squash soup and catching up on some back episodes of  _Outlander_  when her buzzer rang.

It was John. After speaking to him and unlocking the door, she crawled back under the throw (her second favourite, as  _#1_  was still soaking in enzyme solution - she really liked that throw and was unwilling to give up on it!) and waited for him to come up. She was laser-focused on having a 'nothing day'; not even John Watson was going to mess it up.

"Heya!" he said as he walked in.

"Hullo," she returned. "I just made squash soup, want some?"

"No thanks." He weakly waved her off. "I'm running errands. You're one of many."

"How's Rosie?"

"Perfect and infuriating," he answered.

Molly laughed. "That's my girl."

Sitting in the armchair next to the sofa, he wrung his hands nervously, "Ah, Molls?"

Something was afoot, obviously. "What's wrong, John? Why am I an errand?"

Looking down, not meeting her eyes, he said, "I'm, er, sorry about putting you in the middle of things…"

"What are you talking about?"

His head came up. "When I was… After Mary died and I was…" Rubbing the back of his neck, he huffed and said, "With Sherlock. Asking you to give him that note and run interference…"

"John…"

"No! It wasn't right and I should've apologised a long time ago."

He was right, of course. It was a shitty thing to do, but she didn't care, didn't mind. The man had just lost his wife, for God's sake. "What brought this on?"

"Ah, Sherlock…" Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out an envelope. "... asked me to give this to you." Still holding it, not passing it over to her he said, "I was tempted to toss it out. I mean, it can't be good, can it?! What the hell can it be that he couldn't give it to you himself?"

Molly held out her hand. "Well, let's see, shall we?"

He was clearly expecting the worst. Reluctantly, he handed it to her, then crossed his arms over his chest like an angry child.

Shaking her head at John's petulance, Molly inspected the white envelope. It looked and felt like a card.  _A card from Sherlock? Not bloody likely._  Opening it, she almost gasped to indeed find a greeting card inside. Then, laughed loudly as she saw several badly drawn skulls on the front. Inside it read, " _Baby, it's skulls outside"_  and was signed with only an ' _S'_  under the horrible joke and the date in the bottom right corner.

Still laughing, she handed it to the man across from her. He took it, read it, then looked up, confused. "What the hell?"

Molly stood and took the card back."Inside joke." She walked to the bookcase that held some of her most precious possessions, setting it up in front of the set of medical encyclopedia her father bought just before she started university. The card was ridiculous and strange and wouldn't be funny to anyone else, but she loved it.

John followed her. "I don't get it; what's the joke?"

Turning, she faced him. "He's just being an idiot," she said with a smile.

"He's not making fun of you?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Because he's… him!"

Molly patted John's shoulder. "He's actually being…  _cute_ , I suppose." She waved a hand. "Nevermind. And don't worry about anything that happened during that awful time. I was happy to help, even if it was unpleasant."

He was silent for several seconds. "You are… something else, Molly, do you know that?" She was about to make a joke to defuse the tension when he spoke again. "It's just too bad that he doesn't see it."

John  _Foot in the Mouth_  Watson strikes again. Unable to keep her face impassive, the hurt must have shown because he reached out for her - perhaps to comfort or apologise - but she moved away.

"Ah, you've got those errands, right?" she said, walking back to the sofa. "Not to mention you interrupted my day of doing nothing. Very rude of you, John."

"Molly…"

Once again ensconced in her bubble of comfort, she smiled. "It's okay. Really. Thanks for bringing the card."

Clearing his throat, he seemed to be considering saying more. Thankfully he didn't. Instead, he walked slowly to the door. "You're all right?" he asked as he opened it.

"I'm always all right, John."

o0o0o

Oddity #2 happened the very next day. Molly was back to work and very much recovered from her lack of sleep. Even Toby was in better spirits. And after a lengthy soak, her throw had been returned to its pleasant smelling self.

Midway through her shift, an intern came into the lab carrying a small wrapped parcel.

"Dr. Hooper?" she said.

"Yes, Alex?" Molly answered.

"This was just delivered for you." She placed it next to the microscope Molly was using.

It had no return label, just her name and ' _Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, Pathology, Personal and Confidential'_  written on it. Confused, Molly asked, "How did you get it then?"

Alex shrugged. "Don't know. I was paged to come to the welcome desk and asked to bring it to you."

"Well… thanks." Alex smiled and left the lab. Molly went back to the analysis of the cultures she was working on; she'd been asked to rush them and was nearly finished.

Twenty minutes later, she got up, grabbed the package and went to her office. Once she had typed up her findings, she printed them and sent an email to the oncology, letting Dr. Krishnan know that his report was ready. He had requested a hard copy. Dr. K always picked up his reports in person, an antiquated habit, but what could she do?

Looking to her left, she saw the package and finally had time to open it. She didn't recognise the handwriting, so that didn't help solve the mystery. She opened it to find a small white box. Pulling off the lid, she laughed and immediately knew the sender. As she took the t-shirt out of the box, Dr. Krishnan walked into her office.  _Good Lord, was he waiting in the hall for his precious report?! The man needs a hobby!_

"Dr. Hooper, do we need to talk about the meaning of the word ' _quickly'_?" he asked in his usual impatient voice.

She was still laughing, however. Between the image, the words on the shirt and Dr. K's ridiculous need for expediency, Molly couldn't stop laughing.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" he growled, trying to sound intimidating. Hard to pull off as he was one of the only people in the entire hospital who was smaller in stature than Molly. The tiny man put his hands on his hips and huffed, then reached for the shirt, snatching it from her hands. " _Cereal killer?"_ he read. "I don't get it."

Molly picked up the report and handed it to him. "Ah, sorry, inside joke." She took the t-shirt from him and smiled as she looked at the skull and spoons (instead of crossbones) underneath.

"But, it's misspelt," he argued, ignoring his all-important report. "It should be s.e.r.i.a.l  _not_  c.e.r.e.a.l." Turning to leave, he added, "You should return it. I wouldn't pay for a shirt with improper spelling."

"Thank you, doctor," she said with a giggle.

o0o0o

Molly did wonder if there would be any more awful skull humour coming her way but received nothing the next day or the day after that. It turned out that Sherlock was heavily involved with a case; something about missing jewels attempted murder and a member of the House of Commons. Greg had explained this when he came in with DI Hopkins midweek.

She was convinced that Sherlock's foray into comical gift giving had been an aberration when, a week after the t-shirt delivery, she opened her personal email to see that she'd been spammed with skull…  _shit_. He had sent her over two dozen skull related jokes, images, memes and a dirty limerick that bordered on indecent. How he managed to find it, she couldn't fathom, until she did a little internet search and stumbled upon a 'limerick generator' that answered all her questions. If he wanted to accomplish something, Sherlock Holmes would certainly find a way.

Thinking it would be fun to pay him back for all his  _gifts_ , she set about looking for the perfect 'thank you'. This was decidedly odd behaviour from her long-time friend - and they were proper friends now, had been for quite some time - but it felt… good. Normal. Like a fun little game between mates. It was certainly more healthy than drugs or obsessive detecting.

Twenty minutes later, Molly found just what she was looking for. Remembering something that Mycroft had said about Sherlock's childhood aspirations of being a pirate, she giggled as she clicked on the image of a coffee mug with a skull and crossbones on it. Across the top, it said: ' _To err is human'_ , underneath it said: ' _To arr is pirate'_. She was still giggling as she entered Sherlock's address in the send to field.

As much fun as that had been, she'd wasted half of her morning off and still had to finish her Christmas shopping. She had less than a week to get the remaining gifts she'd yet to pick up and it was her last day off before the holidays. She had managed to get Christmas and the week following off this year. Christmas Day would be spent with her mother, as she had missed it the last two years, but she had no set plans for Boxing Day. John had mentioned going to his sister's, but she hoped she'd get to spend some time with Rosie; the toddler meant the world to her. She briefly wondered if Sherlock had plans, but didn't dwell on it. After all his family had been through, they needed to be together for the holidays.

o0o0o

The presents just kept coming. Every day after the emails, Molly received a skull themed gift from Sherlock. Thursday it was a lovely - she was fully aware that most people would think her odd for calling anything involving a skull lovely, she simply didn't care! - snow globe. Friday's silk scarf, covered in gorgeous stylized skulls gave her pause, but she didn't think too much of it. On Saturday she received a pair of skull earrings. The small black studs with black crystals inlaid in the eyes caused Molly to gasp aloud when she opened them. They were delicate and oddly feminine. She instantly loved them.

Sunday, things started to get… well, a bit personal. Or,  _more_  personal considering the scarf and earrings.

She sat staring at the stunning glass vase with narrowed eyes, as she tried to figure out why the infuriating man had sent it. The etching of a sugar skull was unsurprising - he was keeping with a theme, after all - but the vase was filled with a dozen black roses _. Roses?_

She tried not to read too much into it; black roses did fit with his macabre motif. That was it, right? It was just his dark sense of humour. Nothing more. Nothing.

Thankfully, she'd not seen or heard, apart from the gifts, from the detective. He'd not even responded to her silly mug! Which she was sure had been delivered by now and was having second  _and_ third thoughts about having sent to him. What was this all about? Why was he showering her with gifts all of a sudden?

It had been funny at first. Now it was just confusing.

Christmas Eve was a killer in the morgue. By the time she finally got home, Molly was exhausted and frankly not looking forward to the long train ride to her mother's the following morning.

As she was getting out of the tub, she heard her buzzer ring. Answering it, she tied her dressing gown and the voice on the other end said, "Dr. Molly 'Ooper?"

"That's me."

"I 'ave a delivery from a Sherlock 'Olmes," the voice replied.

"Of course you do," She pressed the button to allow him to enter. "Bring it up."

Five minutes later she was signing for yet another package and thanking the rather rough looking young man. She sent him on his way with a Christmas-sized tip and placed the package on her coffee table. Sitting down, she looked at the package with no small amount of trepidation. What had he sent her this time? A severed head?  _Oh, could I be so lucky?_  The roses had spooked her, plain and simple.

Though she was attempting to guard her heart, that vase, well, the vase and its contents, were doing their best to cause an old, familiar feeling to flare.

Sherrinford had been awful and she hadn't even been there! Words were spoken that could not be unspoken. He'd never explained himself, though it wasn't exactly necessary. Mycroft and Greg had come by the following day to remove the multitude of cameras from her flat and make apologies. Whilst a half dozen agents de-surveilled her home, the DI and The British Government explained the events that led up to The Phone Call.

Sherlock had never mentioned it. Never said a single word about it.

But then again, neither had Molly. Far too worried about his mental well-being after hearing about all that had transpired, she had simply pushed that call,  _those words_ to the back of her mind and pressed forward.

" _It's_ The Hooper Way _, dear," her mother said when Molly visited about a month later. "Your father was quite good at pushing away the ugliness to focus on what other people's needs. You're like him..." Reaching out, her mother tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then patted Molly's cheek like she did when she was a small child. Mum's eyes suddenly looked sad and a bit watery. "I know you love him, sweet-pea, but how long are you going wait for something that's never going to happen? You need to move on. This Sherlock doesn't seem to realise what's right in front of him."_

It was solid advice. Her mum was good for that, solid advice and the best sticky toffee pudding in the British Isles.

The package was taunting her. Of course, so were the roses. They sat on her breakfast bar, being beautiful and confusing her poor old heart. She had brought them home since she had a week off and couldn't bear the thought of them dying… alone… in her office... without her.

"Oh, bloody hell!" she moaned to her empty flat.

Snatching up the package, she forcefully ripped off the brown paper wrapping. Underneath she found a plain white box.  _Okay,_  she thought,  _it's probably just another silly t-shirt, right?_  With a deep breath, she removed the lid…

" _What the actual fuck?!"_

 

__

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I've left you hangin' and I'm not even a little sorry. Hope you like the edit of the gifts my sweet husband made for me. I didn't include the snow globe. My computer had a meltdown and I lost the link. The wonderful Melloves all added the edits for me, she's the absolute best! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! A comment would make me all kinds of happy! Love and Joy in 2019! ~Lil~


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yippie! Okay, we like the gifts. Awesome. I'd now like to introduce you to Molly's mum and aunt. They are a hoot and might be loosely based on my own family and me. Who knows?! Perhaps they're completely fictional and resemble no one at all (not bloody likely!). I don't have any images for this chapter, but I do for part four and they will be up on my tumblr and AO3 accounts. I'll mention it with the update which I'm hoping to post on Friday, God willing.
> 
> Beta love to MizJoely for all her help and encouragement. She is the best! Also, to MrsMCrieff for answering Brit questions as I'm an ignorant Yank!
> 
> I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

**_Part 3_ **

"I don't understand," her mother said. "I… I…" She picked up her wine glass and drained it.

Thankfully, Aunt Ann was right there with a freshly opened bottle. "What's to understand, Kath?" she said as she poured.

"But.. but… but..." Mum continued to stutter.

Molly grabbed the bottle away from her aunt and topped off her own glass. "I'm with Mum on this one, Annie…" She took a gulp then rubbed her forehead. "I'm so confused."

The older women had sat and listened to the whole story. They had, surprisingly, kept their comments to themselves during Molly's retelling of the visit to Sherlock's flat; the wine had made an appearance during the silly gifts and the strangely personal ones. She'd brought the scarf and earrings along as a sort of show and tell. Glasses were refilled as she wove a tale of quirky oddness and confusing emotions all culminating with the alarming gift she'd received the day before. Her mother was still in shock, apparently.

"But…"

"You sound like an idiot, Kathy," Ann said with a chuckle. "I really don't see why you two are freaking out. It's not like he gave you a sculpture of his dick..."

" **Ann!"** both Molly and her mother exclaimed at the same time.

Her aunt rolled her eyes. "Or lingerie. The way you built it up, I was expecting crotchless knickers or something!"

Molly huffed. "You don't understand how out-of-character this is for him though!"

"No, I really don't. He's a man... they're all basically the same," she said with a shrug. "So he sent you clothes, big deal. He's got it bad for you, what'd you expect?" She stood and made her way to the fridge. "We need sweets!"

They  _didn't_ need sweets. They'd been eating all day but Molly wasn't about to argue with her favourite aunt when she was wielding cheesecake. She'd had to wait long agonising hours before finally broaching the subject with the two women, suffering through Christmas brunch, Christmas dinner, gifts, puddings and far too much alcohol. Okay, so the booze had been a welcomed distraction, but she couldn't actually sit and talk about her problem until most of her extended family had finally stumbled home, presents and children in tow.

It had been excruciating.

Her mother, still in shock - and probably a bit drunk judging by her rosy cheeks - said, "I just… I was  _sure_ he wasn't interested. After everything…"

Dropping off several covered dishes on the kitchen table, Ann patted her sister's back. "Mr. Tall Dark and Brooding is clearly in love with our Molly, Kathy. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"He's not in love with me, Ann!" she said, picking up a fork and taking a bite of cheesecake without even cutting a slice.

"When did you stop calling me Auntie Annie? Hmm?" the older woman asked, feigning wistfulness. "Uni? Or was it when you became a big-shot doctor?"

"Can you be serious for two seconds?" Molly snapped.

"Don't eat from the pan, sweet-pea!" her mother scolded as she stood, swayed on her feet, then retrieved several small plates. She might be tipsy but Katherine Elaine Hooper was still a lady! "I just feel awful. I told you to give up on him and now…  _this_!"

"There is no this!  _This_ is not a  _this_!"

"Seems a lot like a  _this_ to me," Ann said with a smirk as she loaded her plate with a small helping of each dessert (and an extra large portion of sticky toffee pudding). "You need to look at the entire situation, Molly."

"What does that even mean?"

Ann took a bite, washed it down with some wine, then pointed her fork at her niece. "After what he said that day at his flat…"

"We were talking about my usefulness at work!" Molly interrupted petulantly.

"Watch your tone with me, young lady, I'm trying to make a point." She booped Molly's nose. "And you're wrong, by the way, he  _wasn't_ talking about you professionally. I might have thought so had he not sent you a silk scarf, a dozen roses and black diamond earrings."

" _Black what?!"_  Molly all but screeched.  _Okay, maybe I should back off the wine_...

Her mum picked up the earrings and looked at them closely. "Yep. I'm with Annie on this one. Those aren't crystals, pea-sweet."

"You're drunk, Kath!"

"I'm perfectly sober, you cow!"

"God, why did I come to you two with this? I should have just gone down the pub!"

"You came to me, my dear naive niece because I'm a woman of the world…"

"How does you being a slag in your twenties help our Molly right now?" her mother asked with a sloppy grin.

"Mum!"

Ann turned to her younger sister (younger only by eighteen months, but younger nevertheless) with narrowed eyes and said, "Shall we inform your daughter about the summer of '74,  _Katherine_?"

Molly's mother's face turned a bright red. Standing, she rushed, well, stumbled, to the sink to fill the kettle. "I think it's time for tea, don't you?"

Normally, Molly quite enjoyed their antics, especially when they were in their cups, but she had just a few short hours to decide what to do with The Box and…  _invitation_? Really, it was more of a request or, knowing Sherlock as she did, it was nearly a demand.

She hadn't dared bring The Box with her.

No. Nope. No way! Just telling her mum and aunt that Sherlock had bought her clothes (not funny t-shirt type of clothes, either!) had been hard enough. It felt so…  _intimate_ , so not 'friend zone'. Frankly, it felt dangerous.

It now sat atop her chest of drawers. She'd been tempted to not even move it; simply leave it, untouched, on her coffee table, but she was afraid that Toby would take his frustrations out on its contents. It was roughly the size of his litter tray, after all.  _Damn,_ she thought. That might have solved all her problems.  _Maybe I should have encouraged him to piss in it…_

"Piss in what?" her mother asked. "And who are we talking about now?"

"Oooo! Is your boy into the kinky stuff, luv?" Aunt Ann said, eyebrows wiggling like mad.

It was official. If she was  _speaking_ what she  _thought_ she was only  _thinking_ , she must be drunk! Dropping her head to the table with a thud, Molly decided to let her aunt and mother giggle and whisper about naughty things whilst she tried to work through everything on her own. They were clearly too drunk and jacked up on sugar to offer any assistance.

There had to be some other reason he had sent her clothes. Some ordinary reason...  _Of course!_ she thought, her head jerking up. "It's… It's for a case," she blurted out. "That's the only logical explanation!"

"A case?" Ann asked. "If so, why does it match the other gifts?"

"Like the scarf?" Mum followed up.

"And the earrings..." Ann added.

" _Black diamonds earrings,"_ Mum whispered, her hands cupped around her mouth as if they  _weren't_ the only people in the kitchen - in the house, actually

"And, of course, there's the note," her aunt said with a grin.

 _Damn her!_ Was she secretly related to the Holmes? Wouldn't that be a kick in the pants? " _What_  note?" Molly asked defensively. She hadn't mentioned the bloody note!

Ann sat back, crossing her arms over her chest and smirked. "Let us not play games, child. Just because you failed to tell us about it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

Her mum gasped, her mouth hanging open in shock. After several seconds she slapped her hands down on the table. "Tell me you brought the note!"

Molly stood. "Cackling old hens," she grumbled. "Of course I brought it!" She stormed into the sitting room and dug Sherlock's note out of her coat pocket. Returning, she carefully unfolded it, handing it to her aunt. "It's vague and… strange. Good luck figuring anything…"

"Are you being deliberately obtuse, girlie, or simply in denial?" Ann interrupted. She showed the note to her sister.

Mum sighed. "I've never been so happy to be wrong about something in my life," she said with a girlish grin.

Ann patted her sister's back. "You've never been good at this sort of thing, Kath. How many times did David ask you out before you realised he  _was_ asking you out?"

With a sad look, Mum answered, "Six."

Molly smiled fondly. She'd heard the story of her parents' convoluted courtship many times, but it never got old. "He got you in the end, Mum, that's all that matters," she said, giving the woman an affectionate nudge.

"I got him, actually."

"Exactly!" Ann said with finality. "So, learn from your mum's mistakes and pay some bloody attention."

"She's right, luv."

"And whatever you do, wear the clothes he sent. A bloke like his gifts to be acknowledged."

"OH!" her mother interjected. "You should also wear that lovely new coat Louisa got you!"

"God yes! You did get lucky this year, I hope you know that! I'd kill for that coat." Pulling a face, she turned to her sister, and grumbled, "Why the hell did Stephen get me a hammer?"

"Maybe our brother thought you needed to get nailed," Mum replied with a snort.

Ann laughed, nearly falling over. "Hopefully he got that wife of his some pliers to pull the stick out of her arse." Both women lost it; they both hated their sister-in-law and never missed a chance to mock the woman.

Throwing her hands up in the air, Molly stood and said, "I give up. We're all drunk and full of far too much sugar. We'll talk about this in the morning."

Ann got up, still laughing, and carefully refolded the note. As she gave it back to her niece, she grabbed Molly by the shoulders, pulling her into a hug. "Of course we will, doll. Then you're off to see Bernadette," she said as she patted Molly's cheek.

She started to walk away as if those words meant anything to Molly. "Who the Bernadette and why do I need to see her?"

Aunt Ann paused, replying, "My face girl. Who do you think keeps me looking ten years younger than your mother?" Mum huffed. "After all the crap food you've eaten, not to mention the binge drinking…" She raised an eyebrow as if she  _hadn't_ encouraged Molly's alcohol consumption all evening. "... you need a bit of rejuvenation." She pointed to Molly's chin. "And you have a pimple. Mustn't meet your young man looking like a cross between a haggard old woman and a spotty teen." With a kiss to her forehead, the woman left the room.

o0o0o

Those idiots were convinced that Sherlock's latest gift, plus the note - mustn't forget the note! - indicated true romantic interest. The clear light of day had  _not_ brought Molly any kind of enlightenment. A headache, a rolling belly and sore muscles, she had in spades but no form of clarity.

Now, however, she was returning to London with, admittedly, glowingly soft skin (Bernadette was clearly some kind of sorceress!) but still no idea of what to do about The Box or his…  _entreaty_?  _Petition_?  _Why am I suddenly thinking like an 18th-century romance author?_  Well, that was likely due to his choice of  _meeting place_. Really though, what was she to make of… Looking down at the note, she read it for the, oh, hundredth time…

_Molly,_

_Meet me at Kenwood House, Hampstead, 8pm, Boxing Day._

_Sherlock_

For the love of God! Was she to assume the outfit was just another gift or was she to wear it to the meeting? Because it was nothing more than a meeting, she was sure of it. Probably a case. Most likely. Certainly not a date, as her mother and aunt had tried to convince her. No. Absolutely not.

The roses, the scarf, the earrings (Ann knew  _nothing_ about fine jewellery! Those were crystals,  _not_ black diamonds!) meant nothing. He was still being silly, that's all. It was all some elaborate skull related joke.

_Unless…?_

Unless it wasn't.

Those two old hags had only made things worse!

o0o0o

It was 6.33pm and Molly stood in her bra and knickers, staring at the skirt and -  _gulp_ \- shirt lying on her bed.

She hadn't looked closely at the shirt, far too distracted by the skirt (the adorable, black skirt adorned with white skulls) when she'd opened the package on Christmas Eve. Now, however, she knew  _exactly_ what she was seeing.

It was his shirt. Sherlock Holmes had given her one of  _his_ white oxfords.

_Bloody fucking hell!_

What was she supposed to make of that? Frankly, she was glad she hadn't realised it before her trip to Aylesbury. Aunt Ann would have had a field day with this piece of information… and clothing.

"Well, start as you mean to go on, Hooper," she said to herself as she picked up the designer button-up. She couldn't remember where she'd heard the quote, or if it was even relevant, but it felt right, for some reason. Nonetheless, she had to piss or get off the proverbial pot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, that little... He gave her his own fecking shirt! And our silly, sweet Molly is still so confused. PLEASE! I'm begging for a comment. I had far too much fun with auntie and mum here and would love some feedback. Thanks so much for reading. ~Lil~


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let's start with an apology... I'm so sorry for not updating on Friday. Stuff happened. Mostly, the chapter grew and I wavered about splitting it into two parts. Ultimately, I decided to keep it together (even though it's the size of two chapters!). Then I couldn't end the damn thing. I was suddenly Pete Jackson (sorry, LotR reference!). I don't want to give anything away, so please read the A/N at the end of the update. It's important.
> 
> HUGE thanks to MizJoely for betaing *clears throat* several versions of this and helping me 'find the ending point'. Bless her! And to MrsMCrieff for her Brit business, of course, since I'm a clueless American.
> 
> Though things get slightly naughty, I'm still very comfortable with the T rating. Nothing explicit happens, promise.
> 
> I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

**Part Four**

She'd gone for broke. What did she have to lose except maybe her pride?

Wearing the skirt and  _his_ shirt, Molly had added the scarf under the lapels, tying it into a low, loose knot. The shirt - his shirt - she'd left unbuttoned daringly low, at least by her standards. Not on purpose, necessarily, it just seemed to... work better with the scarf that way.

Possibly.

And, of course, she'd worn the earrings. The  _black diamond_  earrings. Because they  _were_ diamonds, she could no longer deny it. She'd also worn her best (sexiest) underthings. But that was simply because they matched the colour scheme,  _not_ because she was  _trying_ to be sexy.

Mostly.

Thankfully, Cousin Louisa had pulled her name in their family Secret Santa and had given her a new winter coat. Aunt Ann was right; the double-breasted, black wool trench that fell a few inches above her knees was gorgeous (and certainly better than a hammer!). The cut was A-line, just like the skirt underneath, and very flattering. Molly belted it tightly as she got out of the cab.

Damn near everything she was wearing was a gift and, if she was being honest, she felt pretty as a picture. Well, perhaps a black and white photo, considering the lack of colour in her outfit.

She'd even taken her time with her hair and make-up. After her facial, Bernadette had thrust a bag of cosmetics into Molly's hand, insisting, "Your skin is almost perfect - though you'll want to cover what's left of that spot - all you need is a touch of colour on your cheeks and lips. Makeup should be seen,  _not_ heard, luv." Molly assumed this was code for 'less is more', which was fine with her. Her last attempt to get Sherlock's attention with flashy makeup and clothes had gone… badly, very badly. As for her hair, after some thought, she'd decided to twist it up off of her neck and away from her face. If it made it easier for Sherlock to see his earrings, that was just a coincidence.

Probably.

Her choice to not wear perfume, however, very much deliberate. The shirt still held a slight hint of Sherlock and she couldn't bring herself to cover it up.

Eyeing the stunning Georgian Estate with a fair amount of trepidation, Molly had only taken three steps when she saw him. In his usual dramatic form, Sherlock emerged from the shadows like some dark hero from a Brontë novel. She hadn't even realised she'd stopped moving, but she had frozen in step as she watched his approach. Her breath caught in a gasp and though her nerves were still a tight coil in her belly, something else was fighting to break free.

Hope, perhaps? Arousal too, of course, since the man, as always, was sex on a stick. But there was also something new and exciting teasing at the very edge of her awareness. She reached for it because for better or worse, she was here. And Sherlock… He had wanted her here. Wanted her attention for  _whatever_ this was. He'd given her some ridiculous gifts and some lovely ones, too. Then, he had asked her to meet him…

Wait a minute… Kenwood House was closed at this time of night.  _Shit! Maybe this is for a case!_ Looking around, she tried to pick up on anything that would give her a clue as to his purpose. They appeared to be alone. There were no visible cars and very few lights on inside the building.  _Oh my God! Why'd I wear this!?_

It seemed to take ages for him to reach her but when he did, he smiled and simply said, "Molly Hooper," in his deliciously deep baritone.

That teasing excitement overtook her nerves and fear that she'd misread things once again. At the sound of his voice, she exhaled, unaware of the smile that broke out as she did so. "Sherlock," she replied, wanting to ask a million questions but somehow refraining.

Silence stretched out for several seconds. A minute, possibly more. He just looked at her with an odd softness in his eyes. It was dark, of course, making it hard to tell but Molly thought that she saw relief in his blue-green gaze. Had he thought that she wouldn't show? Though she'd been confused, okay,  _very_ confused, there was really no chance of that ever happening, now was there.

Ready to ask her questions, she shifted her feet and adjusted the small clutch in her hands. "Sherlock...?"

"Thank you for coming," he said in a rush. His eyes travelled down her body, causing her cheeks to heat. "Did you…?"

The question hung in the air and Molly was suddenly  _very_ thankful for her meddling family. She could answer him, of course, or…

It was risky but she'd been taking chances all day. What was one more?

She slowly unbelted her overcoat.  _God, let me not be wrong about this and I'll never make fun of Dr. Capshaw ever again. I'll never miss a recycling day and I promise to actually listen to Tim from down the hall when he tells me about his salt and pepper pot collection._  His eyes never left her body as she unbuttoned it, and did she imagine the slight intake of breath as she pulled it opened?

Inexplicably, her confidence doubled. Tripled! "I haven't had a chance to thank you," she said after a few seconds of his appraisal.

Looking up, Sherlock licked his lips and nodded. "I did receive your mug."

"Hardly comparable," she replied with a soft laugh.

"I may be new to gift-giving, Molly, but if I understand correctly, that is not the point of the tradition."

She smiled at the surprisingly astute comment. "True." Unwilling to allow awkwardness to settle, Molly asked, "Are we breaking and entering this evening, Sherlock?"

"No. At least not this time." He lifted his left hand, palm up, and said, "The weather seems to be cooperating."

He was right. The weather had improved, warming up from bitter cold to just chilly. Not unbearable in the least. Most importantly, it wasn't raining. Her hair would have been ruined.

"And to answer your question, we  _do_ have permission to be here; they owe me." Then he bent his arm like a proper gentleman and offered it to her. "Would you indulge me, Miss Hooper?"

 _In absolutely anything,_  she answered in her head. Thankfully, she kept her mouth shut and accepted his arm with a smile. His actions and words were swoon-worthy; she was proud of the fact that she was still standing upright. Speaking, though, was not an option at the moment.

Once her hand was secured safely at the crook of his elbow, Sherlock brushed his fingers quickly against hers and led her down the paved driveway, around the side of the building. Soon, however, they were walking on damp grass and Molly was quite glad she had opted for cute but sensible black flats rather than anything with heels. Though they walked in complete silence, it was anything but uncomfortable. He was warm and solid next to her and smelt of something expensive, yet subtle, much like the shirt that she was wearing.

Before long, they had approached a copse of trees and Sherlock removed his arm and adjusted their position. It was dark, but the moon was waxing, allowing just enough light for her to see the lovely greens of the estate.

Moving to stand behind her, Sherlock said, "Just over there," and pointed to the edge of the forest line before she felt both of his hands on her shoulders.

Molly looked to where he'd pointed then tilted her face up to his. "What? What am I looking at?" She turned once again to try and see what he was showing her; she saw nothing but trees, bushes and grass.

"It's where I found her," he said softly in her ear.

This time, she didn't turn; she couldn't move, really. "Who?" she asked, although somehow she knew exactly what they were talking about.

" _Billy,"_  he whispered.

"Tell me." There was an odd pleading in her voice that she hardly recognised, but she needed to hear the story, for some reason.

His hands tightened on her shoulders as he spoke, "I'd been asked to Kenwood on a case, of course. Missing sculpture. Boring. Solved it within an hour but I kept walking the grounds…"

"When?" Molly asked.

"About a year before we met."

 _Before_  we  _met…_  Not  _before John_. Not  _before he started working with Greg_. His phrasing shouldn't have meant so much, but it did. She smiled and said, "Tell me about the case first."

It might have been boring to him, but she doubted that any normal person would have found it so. Besides, she wanted to drag out the moment as long as possible.

He huffed, but didn't really sound annoyed. When did Sherlock Holmes ever mind talking about his work? "The sculpture was small and hardly worth two thousand pounds. It was part of a larger installation and the thief clearly assumed it wouldn't be missed.  _The idiot._  As soon as I met the estate manager's nephew - who was working there for the summer, a punishment for stealing his father's beloved boat and having a joyride with his mates - I knew he had done it." He scoffed. "As I said, it wasn't worth much. He was just trying to make some dosh to support his drug habit. I had some time to kill whilst I waited for the delinquent's shift to end. I knew he'd  _casually_ attempt to retrieve the statue now that he was all but caught."

Molly shifted, putting her hands in her pockets.

"Cold?" His voice was close to her ear and caused an involuntary shiver down her spine.

"No," she lied, as she actually was a little cold. "Keep talking, I want to hear the rest." In reality, she was regretting having unbuttoned her coat. She didn't want the magic to end, didn't want to do anything that might break the spell that seemed to have settled over the grounds of the majestic estate.

Suddenly Sherlock was much closer, his chest pressed against her back. He reached around her and took hold of her coat, pulling it closed. He then tied the belt in a loose knot. "Better?" he asked, his hands resting on her hips.

She could only nod in response.

"So, I was walking the grounds, killing time whilst I waited for the imbecile to get off of work when I came upon that area right over there." Again, he pointed to the edge of the forest. "The groundskeepers had been working the dirt, loosening it to plant… something, I assume. As I spoke to them briefly before they left for a tea break, asking some general questions, something in the freshly turned earth caught my eye."

"Billy."

He chuckled, suddenly alarmingly close to her ear. "Indeed."

"Who was she?"

"A Russian assassin, as far as I can deduce, at least."

Molly gasped.

"Do you know the history of Kenwood House, Molly?"

"Well, some, of course..."

"Most of it is completely unimportant but in 1910, the 6th Earl of Mansfield leased the house to the Grand Duke Michael Mikhailovich of Russia. Mikhailovich was somewhat interesting in that he'd been exiled for contracting a morganatic marriage with Countess Sophie of Merenburg."

He paused, thankfully giving Molly time to think for a moment. She knew a bit about the aristocracy and understood the meaning of a morganatic marriage. It would have meant that neither Sophie nor their children would have been granted succession rights, titles or properties.

"Why did he do it?" she asked.

Sherlock laughed softly again. "You must enjoy standing in the cold, Molly, you keep distracting me from the good parts…"

She turned her head slightly to the right, giving herself a side view of Sherlock's profile. "It was important enough for him to be exiled. He left his homeland for her." She paused. "He loved her, didn't he?"

With a sigh, he replied, "The Grand Duke was… unlucky, in love. He proposed to three different foreign princesses and was thrice rejected. Then, he tried to marry into Russian nobility, which his parents were highly against, and again… failed."

"Poor man."

"Then he fell in love…"

"With Sophia!" Molly said, turning in Sherlock's arms.

"No," he replied. "With Countess Catherine Nikolaevna Ignatieva, the daughter of a former Minister of Interior. His parents wouldn't approve the match. They sent him to Nice to separate the pair."

"That's awful."

Sherlock smirked. "Ah, but then he met Sophie…"

"How, Sherlock? How did they meet?" she implored, looking up at him.

He rolled his eyes. "Must you have all the romantic details?"

"But that's the best part!"

He didn't respond, didn't mock or tease; he simply smiled and said, "The Duke met his Sophie when he saved her from a horse that had run away with her."

"Oh… of course he did," Molly said with a sigh. Placing her hands on his chest without any thought whatsoever. "Go on!"

"This time the Duke was smart," Sherlock explained. "He didn't ask for permission. They were married in San Remo. The marriage caused quite a scandal as it was not only morganatic but also illegal under Imperial house laws. He was stripped of his military rank and position at court, then exiled from the country for life. His mother, so distraught by her son's choices, collapsed when she heard about it all. She later had a heart attack and died. They wouldn't even allow him to attend her funeral."

"I wonder if he ever regretted it? Losing everything for love."

" _I doubt it,"_ Sherlock whispered.

She suddenly realised how close they were and took a step back. His answer had seemed loaded but loaded with what, Molly couldn't possibly say.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock offered, "We can go inside… if you like. It seemed too late for dinner, but I asked for refreshments and..."

"I am a bit chilled," she replied.

o0o0o

He led her back up to the house and into a small, yet beautifully appointed private dining room where they sat at a tasteful table set for two. The National Trust owned Kenwood House and had for years, as far as Molly was aware. Her parents had brought her once to 'meet Santa' when she was seven. She remembered asking why there weren't more decorations (Young Molly didn't approve of a lack of fairy lights, apparently) and Mum had explained that it was 'in keeping with the historical integrity of the estate'. Her seven-year-old self just thought it was boring. Now, just like when she was a child, tasteful holly wreaths adorned the mantles and doors, velvet ribbons were laced through some of the bannisters and there were, of course, Christmas trees, but nothing like the garish decorations that graced most of London this time of year.

Molly couldn't help but feel somewhat vulnerable sat across from him  _in his bloody shirt_ , but she did her best to ignore it and enjoy the lovely setting and rare opportunity he'd given her. A white-gloved waiter brought them tea and rich chocolate cake and after they'd had their fill - Sherlock eating far more than Molly had ever seen him consume - she was quite ready for the rest of the tale.

"All right, I'm warmed and fed. I know you're dying to get to the Russian assassin part of your story." She rested her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers under her chin. "Let's hear it."

Dabbing the corner of his mouth, Sherlock tossed his napkin onto his plate. With a satisfied grin, he said, "I had a DNA analysis run on the skull; that's how I found out that she was Russian. Carbon dating told me how long she'd been there." He took a sip of tea. "It wasn't difficult to find out that none of the Duke's family had suffered mysterious deaths. They were all accounted for; she couldn't have been one of them." He shrugged. "I deduced that she was likely sent by one of his brothers. Angry that he had brought so much shame to the family, they must have sent her to kill the Grand Duke, and probably his wife. Though why they waited until the family was settled in Kenwood is still a mystery. Clearly, the assassination attempt was thwarted, so perhaps it wasn't the first."

"How did you end up with her? Surely the estate would have wanted to keep such an important piece of history."

"I had no real proof of who she was. She's  _still_  a mystery, Molly. The estate manager refused to submit the information into the official record."

"So you just nicked her?" Molly asked with a grin.

"When I presented him with the sculpture  _and_ his nephew, he asked how much I wanted to keep the information from becoming public. I asked for Billy."

"Why?"

"At the time? I was annoyed and had no intention of ever working with them again. Asking for the skull was my way of thumbing my nose at their nepotism. I also wanted to piss off Mycroft, who had gotten me the job. So I got to thumb my nose at nepotism… twice." A boyish grin grew on his lips. He looked across the room, starring off for several moments, his face growing sombre. "But I had learned so much about the Grand Duke and…" trailing off, he turned to her again. "Later, she came to mean something much different to me."

She didn't ask what, she just held his gaze.

"Sophie saved his life, Molly." He suddenly seemed uncomfortable, for some reason. Looking down, he fiddled with his cutlery, straightening it before looking back up again. "During the Russian Revolution of 1917, all of his brothers that remained in the country were killed, as were a great deal of nobility. Had he stayed, had he married as his parents wanted him to, he likely wouldn't have survived." His next words seemed awkward and strained. "Love saved the Duke's life." He paused. "I, ah… I can relate."

Molly stared across the table at Sherlock. Was she supposed to respond to that? Yes, she'd helped him fake his death because she loved him, of course, that was at least part of the reason. But also because she believed in him. She always had. Hadn't he asked her as much just before asking her to commit several crimes against the State? So… was that the reason he'd done of all of this?  _A bit late, don't you think?_ The gifts and attention, this…  _outing_ was all just some elaborate "Hey, thanks for faking my death!". And if so what was with their day of crime solving? She'd thought - because he had plainly said so - that that day was her 'thank you'.

Bloody hell, now she was more confused than ever.

It had all been so… romantic. Okay, so the setting had simply been to tell her about the damn skull. Not romantic, so much as necessary.  _But was it necessary?_  He could have just as easily told her the entire tale from the comfort of 221B, instead, he chose to bring her to the scene of the crime, so to speak.

She needed answers. Deserved them, actually.

At some point in the last few minutes, she'd dropped her head, focusing on the remnants of cake and tea. Though it took all of her courage, she finally found her voice. So many questions rattled around in her head, but, for some reason - one she could not possibly fathom - she asked, "Why'd you give me your shirt, Sherlock?"

For a split second, he looked like he been caught doing something very naughty, but he quickly schooled his expression. "Quite simple, really. I had left your gifts on the kitchen table, planning on boxing them up to send but got distracted with an experiment. Your original shirt was ruined. Sulfuric acid will do that to a cotton blend."

"Oh."  _What an entirely predictable but boring explanation!_ "Well, that explains…"

Smiling, he shook his head. "You're usually better at seeing through my bullshit, Molly Hooper."

"What?"

His brow furrowed. "I haven't been at all clear, have I?"

"I don't…"

Stranding, Sherlock took three short steps and held out his hand. "Indulge me… one more time, please?"

Though tears threatened, she managed to hold them back as she took his proffered hand and stood.

His eyes travelled up and then down her entire body. "You look beautiful. I should have said that earlier - I…" He laughed. "I'm really not good at this."

"At what?"

Tilting his head, he sighed. "At what I've been trying to tell you, Molly." His hand came up, cupping her cheek. "This isn't about you helping me fake my death. You saved me then, of course, but you've also saved me countless other times."

"Sherlock, I don't understand." First one then two more tears escaped. He brought his other hand up and thumbed them away. "When could I have possibly…?"

"When I was shot, for instance. You were there. Well, here..." he said, tapping the side of his head, he then quickly returned his hand to her cheek. "You were in my head, telling me how to fall. Other times too, but after Sherrinford… God, Molly, I wanted to use so badly. All I wanted to do was get high and forget. I wanted that time again, the fleeting moments when I could forget. I knew that I could have had a break from the onslaught of memories and emotions with a quick trip to one of a dozen dealers." He shook his head. "I didn't, though. I kept seeing you face that day at the hospital. I kept hearing your voice when you tested me in the ambulance. I couldn't hurt you like that again.  _Never again._ " The last two words were said in a whisper.

One of his hands moved the back of her neck. His eyes, which had been focused on hers, moved to her mouth as he ran his thumb just under her bottom lip.

Molly gasped softly, drawing his eyes upward.

"I've said and done some horrible things to you, Molly Hooper, but the look on your face that day…" He rolled his eyes. "Sobriety, they say, should be accomplished, maintained for oneself - I've been to enough rehab centres to know the spiel by heart - fine, this is for me.  _Selfishly_ , I choose to be sober so that I never have to see you like that again." Pausing, he searched her face. "Don't you see? I have no doubt that had I used just after Sherrinford, that it could have, likely  _would_ have, killed me. Especially after everything I put my body through following Mary's death. The scheduled 'pop-ins' wouldn't have stopped me. If I had really wanted to go find something, I would have. But I didn't. Because of you." A broad smile broke out on his face. "You saved me… you  _always_ save me."

She was ugly crying, there was no denying it. Bernadette would be so disappointed.

"It wasn't your love this time, Molly, it was my love for you that kept me from falling the wrong way."

Though a gasping sob, she asked, "L-love?

"Yes, love," he said with a laugh. "I'm a shameless opportunist, you know. When you picked up Billy that day, I decided it was time."

"Time?"

"Time to tell you… everything. But I also decided that you deserved to be courted, hence the gifts."

"Oh…"

"And, just to make myself perfectly clear," he said, moving his hands to her waist and pulling her close until their bodies touched, hips to chest, "I lied." He ducked his head, pressing his lips to her ear.

"Really?" she managed with some effort as she steadied herself with her hands on his  _very_ firm shoulders. "A-about what?"

"Mhmm…" Placing a kiss on her neck just below her ear, he said, "The shirt. There was no original. I was teasing you."

Another kiss, a nip, and Molly could  _not_ hold back the moan that escaped. He wasn't exactly playing fair! His hands had found her bottom and were palming her buttocks through the skirt he'd bought her. "Well, then - oh, God, Sherlock! - why…?"

"Because I've had this fantasy about you in one of my shirts for… a  _very_ long time. Gifting you one of them seemed the most expedient way of fulfilling said fantasy." Pulling back, he eyed her once again. "And I must say, reality is far better than anything I ever imagined."

Biting her lip, Molly felt her cheeks heat up as she grabbed onto his lapels to pull him back towards her.

Sherlock stopped her, however. Taking both of her hands in his, he kissed the knuckles of her right hand. "We have a car waiting to take us… anywhere. Baker Street, your flat, wherever you want to go. There's no rush, Molly. You've been so patient, so giving. I'd wait for…"

She cut him off with a kiss which he didn't hesitate to reciprocate. The kiss was slow and deep. When his tongue swept into her mouth, she accepted it gladly, fisting his lush curls in her hands and pressing her body tightly against his.

Pulling back, breathless and flushed, she said, "I wore my best knickers for this, Sherlock. Let's not waste them."

He laughed loudly and kissed her again, then took her hand, leading her out of the room.

* * *

**221B Baker Street (bedroom), two and a half _very_  satisfying hours later...**

"One more question, if you don't mind?" Molly asked, propping her head on her hand as she studied the man who was lying on his back next to her with a very smug on his beautiful face.

He tilted his head slightly, smug smile still firmly in place."After  _that_ , you could ask me for absolutely anything." Turning, he faced her and wrapped his arm around her waist. "You want the moon? 'Cause I know a guy…" He kissed her cheek, nibbled on her neck then started to move lower, his destination obvious.

"I'm serious!" she giggled.

"So am I," he growled, pushing her back and pinning her to the bed.

"You  _can't_ be ready again!"

"Not yet, Hooper, but give me time. I'll get there." He pulled back and smirked. "Have a little faith."

"Oh, I do!" And did she ever! Sherlock  _the body is transport_  Holmes had just transported her to another plane of existence! She shouldn't have been so surprised; the man was nothing if not thorough. That included sex, apparently. "But you're distracting me." She scratched her nails down his back to get his attention. "I want to ask you something. We'll get back to  _being ready_ in a bit."

He stopped kissing her, giving her a pouty look as he shifted off of her and back to the bed. "Fine. Ask your question." His right hand didn't relinquish contact, however, still lightly caressing her stomach. It had been like this since they'd left Kenwood: he had been touching her, in one way or another, for three hours. "And I'm half  _ready_ , by the way. So make it quick," he added with a wink.

 _Yes, I know!_ That was rather hard to miss, actually, as he'd just been on top of her. "Ah, why did you call her Billy?" she asked quickly.

He chuckled. "Mycroft," he answered as if that explained anything.

She gave him a questioning glance.

"Considering the mug you sent me, I assume you're aware of my childhood obsession with pirates?"

Nodding, Molly giggled.

"Mycroft, when we were younger, was obsessed with the American West. More specifically with Wild West outlaws. He was especially keen on Billy the Kid"

"You really do enjoy tormenting him, don't you?"

"It is rather fun. And ever so easy." His demeanour suddenly changed. All playfulness was now gone and replaced with unease. "I shouldn't have had him come talk to you, Molly. It was cowardly and..."

"It's fine," she interrupted, not wanting to rehash the unpleasantness of that day. "Greg was there too and… it's really okay. I understand."

"I wasn't ready. I wasn't quite…" He seemed to be struggling as if he were searching for the right word. It was a very strange look on him. "I wasn't quite whole yet."

"And you're ready now?" she asked.

His sideways smirk was both sexy and mischievous. "More than."

"Then why did we spend so much time  _skulking_ around an ancient manor house when we could have been here… doing this?" she said pulling him close once again. It was completely deliberate, of course; she wanted to distract him with sex and humour. This night was about the start of something beautiful and new. They'd had enough sadness for a lifetime...

Sherlock laughed. "You've been dying to say ' _skulk'_  all night, haven't you? Never could resist a bad joke."

"I have no idea to what you are referring," Molly said primly.

"I had you with the card and you know it." He positioned himself so that he was, once again, lying on top of her. "Awful humour gets your knickers wet, Molly Hooper…" Kissing her chin, her cheek then finally her lips, he said, "Admit it!"

"I'll admit no such thing!"

"Yes, it does. And I love that about you." Staring at her with big, soulful eyes, he said, "I love everything about you."

Molly ran her hand through his hair, it was messy and tousled from their vigorous activities. Scraping her nails against his scalp, she pulled him forward. "I love you," she said. "Thank you for tonight. It was perfect."

"It was years too late."

She shrugged. "We'll just have to make up for lost time."

"Excellent idea," he said before kissing her senseless.

And they did.

Molly argued with him about alerting their friends as the scheduled 'drop-ins' were still in effect. Sherlock simply waved her off and left Billy just outside the front door of the flat with a note that read: ' _Busy making love. Do not disturb.'_

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's done. So, the business with the Grand Duke is all true up to Billy, of course. I got it from the interweb, so if you happen to have extensive knowledge of the Grand Duke Michael Mikhailovich and see that I've gotten anything wrong, I apologise. I really worked hard on all of this, but it's certainly possible that I got misinformation.
> 
> Thank you all for reading. I'd love to hear any and all final thoughts. Your comments make my day. ~Lil~

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, there are at least three more parts on the way. Thanks so much for reading. A comment would make my day... really. I would be ever so grateful. ~Lil~


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